Perversion of Innocence
by Magic-Assasin
Summary: Bumblebee is a bad bot indeed. No I don't mean it that way, or maybe I do. Read it to find out.


Lol why did I do this, I really must've not had anything to do

Oh well to those who care, forgive me for completely destroying your beloved series XD Don't ask me to write another because I most likely either will or won't depending on whether or not I find something to entertain myself with this week

* * *

Of all the bots I'd known, I'd never expected him to be capable of such pure _**brutality**_. Our lively comrade, the one with the diminutive stature whose vocal cords grated my auditory sensors yet warmed my Spark . . . stooped over Sentinel's shell like a sadistic child.

Some reunions never should be. Not like _this_. Not reeking of Energon and already rusting insides; my own innards churn at the spectacle.

Sari. Her thin legs shake like leaves in Autumn, and for a moment their eyes meet. I myself steal a glance at them, and what I see takes my nonexistent breath away.

Nothing.

"My–"

* * *

_"Lord, if you can hear me, please bring him home safe and sound." Her bowed head lays exhausted between thin shoulders, delicate fingers clasped together as she kneels to what she calls a cross. I examine the icon from a distance, puzzling over the unfamiliar ritual. Interruption would most likely be unnapreciated at this point, so I hold my silence._

_I turn my head to the hulking space repairbot adjacent, so unlike his close friend. His generally jolly disposition is replaced by silent determination with the yellow one's absence. It's as if something inside him just went offline, Primus knows when it'll come back. My gaze trails to his clumsy yet steady servos, relentless at their task._ Find him.

_Oh, how we tried._

_But the entirety of the Elite Guard's attention and skill can only go so far. Still, if he won't give up then neither will we. In our own silent way._

* * *

Despite the grief I do not let my servos weaken between blows, what few I can get in. Just as the counterfire and slithery movements give me the resolution to strike, the recognizable sprout of tireless energy I vividly recall saving lives causes me to hesitate. Soon grief becomes rage over my own indecision, a slow and steady poison that hampers strategic focus and leaves me gripping for nothing but air.

All those solar cycles spent practicing self discipline and split klikk decision making, and I can't even bring myself to stop holding back.

_"_What–!?"

His symbol isn't that of an autobot. For a moment my processor draws up a blank and hits me hard in the shoulder. I go tumbling backward, and if not for Optimus I'd have more than six inches of pure Cybertronian weaponry tearing through the delicate tubing of my neck. Prime's voice rings like a clear bell over the grinding cacophony.

"Bumblebee, what's wrong with you!? Stop this!" There's only so much reasoning one can attempt before the situation turns into offline or be offlined. As much as it pains me, I choose the former option.

I aim at the struggling duo's feet, narrowing my target to a fine point in between the joints of his leg. The star veers off course and knicks their hubcaps; I curse my bad luck and Bumblebee's new combat pattern. My accuracy is horrible, and personal conviction isn't changing anything to my dismay. But it's not only my lack of precision; the way his agile body twists and his stingers flash is dirty and honorless. It's certainly not the sort of thing they'd teach at the Academy. Plain out street fighting, with a tint of Decepticon. I keep note of it, among other things.

Creeping frusturation reasons that it shouldn't be this hard to take one bot down. Not even Ratchet's magnetic force holds him for long, but combined effort works its toll. His screeching is good enough implication as any, but its pitch burns my audio receptors and sends Sari to the floor in a fit of sudden vertigo.

Optimus and I are the only ones who dare look at him straight on for more than ten klikks; he has an obligation to as the renegade bot's commander, and I simply am not afraid. No, I do not fear this new breed of war machine, compact and capable of toppling Bulkhead's massive (albeit shaky) bravado in a matter of minutes. Denial works wonders in the midst of combat.

By pure luck I am able to catch him by the arm and twist him around. This unwise impulse doesn't register as a severe mistake in my processor even as his stinger whistles past one of my joints. "Bumblebee." Pain explodes in my left flank. Why am I doing this? "Bumblebee!"

He pauses, and suddenly I'm glaring at something all too familiar yet all too foreign. "Who's Bumblebee?" The voice makes my Spark go cold. My grip slackens. It can't _not_ be him: his form, his tone –-!

But not that absent stare. The way he looks at me, without any recognition . . . hurts even more then the gash in my side. Then it's gone and I'm left stumbling backwards into the wall, faintly aware of pointed tips and half choked cries racing past my visual receptors.

Ah, now it hits me. An Epiphany. In between the few nanoklikks of witnessing my own circuitry go flying and the ground. Stupidity feels like numbness.

* * *

_"Who is this God, Sari?" I am faintly aware of Optimus's attention shifting from the blaring TV to us._

_She rises to her feet, blinking thoughtfully. "Well you see, humans don't really know how the world came into being. So they tried to explain it. And they made up God. "_

_I raise an optic ridge under my visor. "Made up 'God'?"_

_"Yeah. This cross is supposed to represent what they nailed this man named Jesus, son of God, to. He was what they called a Prophet." Her nose wrinkles in slight distaste. I myself was rather skeptical._

_"Why would they subject one of their own kind to such torture?" It doesn't add up in my mind, but with all honesty humans aren't as logical as I first thought. Three nanoklikks pass, then there's an audible sigh followed by an agitated shuffling to the window._

_"Because he claimed that he was related to this all powerful being in the sky. People didn't believe him." I'm surprised by her height. She's only a few feet short of _him_ now. "I don't really believe in it myself, but even if there isn't . . . "_

_That night, I lay on the topmost branches of my sanctuary. Detroit's polluted air didn't offer much of a tranquil view, but it's vast array of lights was in its own way appealing. A dried out chrysalis lay in my outstretched servo. Given time to reflect, I pondered on this new Earth concept. Religion. How much it shaped this planet with its invisible strings. How similar it was to our own, based on mere notions of right and wrong . . ._

_. . . I offline my optics and begin to pray._

" . . . Can't hurt to try to hope, right?"

_God._


End file.
